


The day Death forgot something

by Granddaughter_Ogg



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Bittersweet, Brotherly Affection, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Home Repairs, Memory Loss, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Granddaughter_Ogg/pseuds/Granddaughter_Ogg
Summary: This is a story about you and your beloved Horsemen sharing a house with a bad roof leak. But something else is leaking too, and everyone will have to come to terms with it.
Relationships: Death (Darksiders)/Reader, War (Darksiders)/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	The day Death forgot something

**Author's Note:**

> It seems that whichever chaotic deity stood behind those incidents, they’ve saved their best for War. 

**It all started with a leaky roof.**

The Four have bought themselves - and you - a house. They did so with coinage looted in countless different realms. You'd always treasure the facial expression of the bank clerk. Poor guy squirmed in his seat while explaining to four freakishly tall, fiery-eyed, fully armoured individuals that Makers' hacksilver (mere 26 pounds apiece) doesn't register as "money" in those parts. 

Most interesting day in his career, that's for sure.

The house in question was old.

Not dilapidated; just run-down enough to justify the low price. It has soon become obvious that it will have to be torn down and then rebuilt to fit the non-standard sized tenants. Poor War always felt so despondent among tiny human doorframes, their pitifully brittle walls and dainty knickknacks, prone to shattering at the slightest nudge. 

You know, like tables and such.

Strife could navigate among those just fine; despite being the noodle of the pack, he’s got the proprioception of a seasoned ballerina. Still claimed that all this hunching makes his back hurt. 

Death and Fury could fit into a human-sized interior without much problem. 

Yet she bristled at the thought of wearing lower heels, and your beloved would loathe admitting that he’s a short Nephilim. One thing is to know something; another altogether is to put it into words. 

Death has a recurring problem with this sort of thing.

So you didn’t make him. This building needed a revamp anyway.

And it has been done. After countless trips to the local Home Depot, after summer weeks full of construction work - while you lived in a tent in the overgrown garden and the Four camped under the stars like they’re accustomed to. After amazing feats of Horseman cooperation and as much squabbling (Strife and Death had opposite opinions on anything), the house has been finally ready to be lived in. 

Under the latter’s lead, your boys displayed adeptness at carpentry, even if they didn’t pay much heed to the decorative side of things. War etched some protective sigils into the walls, the doorstep and the ceiling joist - and that was it. You had no idea what those exactly mean, but they sure glowed pretty in the dark. 

The house turned out to have a raw, pioneer aesthetic. There was a rustic stone hearth and lots of stained wood everywhere. You thought this starkness to be rather fetching.

Fury - who couldn’t be bothered to work with wood, but did care about them comforts and frills - made Death undertake another shopping trip. This time towards IKEA.

You enjoyed your first night spent in a proper bed like nobody’s business. Only partially because this was also Death’s bed.

And then the roof started to leak.

It was a slow leak at first. One morning Strife would drag his long ass down the stairs for breakfast, yawning and scratching, tendril hair pointing every which way, and claimed that he’s woken up to water splashing on his face.

„Maybe a bird relieved itself on you”, said Death flatly.

„In my own bed?!”

„Must have been a dedicated bird”, was the uncharitable response, followed by a swig of coffee. (Black, no sugar.) Fury rolled her eyes to high heavens but said nothing. You on your part couldn’t help but titter; even War’s dour Morning Expression gave way to a snort.

Strife shot him a side-eye. „Don’t you neigh, my square-shaped brother. Birds don’t poop on your head cuz they can’t find it.”

The Big Guy harrumphed and focused on his cereal. Strife slumped on a chair with an annoyed puff, stuffing his face with two toasts at once.

Next time is was Fury who fell prey to the stealthy leak. One day you dropped by to chat. She was brushing that awe-inducing mane of hers while sitting in front of a large mirror. Fury had a proper vanity installed in her bedroom; a sturdy, antique-looking affair, covered with lots and lots of little bottles. As far as you knew, all of them contained some sort of magic. Fury took this whole beautifying thing to the next level.

So there she was, styling her coif with a self-indulgent smoulder when – PLOP! - something fell from the ceiling and landed precisely on the top of her head.

Fury shrieked.

„WET!” she cried out, eyes bulging, hands frantically pawing the ruined hairdo. „What was that, Little One? WHAT WAS THAT?!”

You suspected that the disgrace of having bird droppings touch her precious hair would cause someone as vain as Fury to shave it all off. And to remain bitterly bald while never, ever disclosing the reasons for doing so.

So it was with relief that you could state what you just saw:

„Oh, it’s just water.”

„Water?” She eyed the ceiling suspiciously, both hands still submerged inside the fluttering blue flame (Ice Hollow was the look _du jour_ ). „But...how?...”

Both of you glared upwards like two paranoid magpies. Still, nothing else has happened.

It seems that whichever chaotic deity stood behind those incidents, they’ve saved their best for War. 

It happened during dinnertime, too. You’ve just cooked a new dish – garlic butter shrimp pasta – and proudly displayed it to the Horsemen. The twins were already munching in abandon. Death excused himself politely. He seldom ate at all but would stay at the table nonetheless, sipping his extra bitter coffee or as unforgiving tea. You knew he did this entirely for your sake.

Meanwhile, the established big eater of the bunch seemed to have his reservations.

You watched War pin his eyes to the full plate in front of him, fighting to retain his stony expression. The corner of his mouth twitched.

„What is it, baby?” You teased. „The shrimps are well and truly cooked. They ain’t gonna pounce at you.”

War exhaled. „Don’t misunderstand me, Little One...” he said, eyeing the dish with comic seriousness. „I would never dare to question your, eh, cooking abilities. I am just not that fond of food with tiny legs. It reminds me of many a thing I had to slay...”

„War’s afraid of spiders!” Strife chimed in, his mouth full.

The Big Guy sputtered in indignation. 

„I am not _afraid_ of anything”, he stated, accosting his _enfant terrible_ of a brother with a glare. „I just don’t like things that...walk like that.” He made a crawling gesture with his good hand.

„Too bad”, Strife licked his long fingers. „This shit’s delicious!”

War crinkled his wide nose and said nothing.

„So it’s about the visuals, huh?” you said, struck by an idea. „Would it be okay for you to try it just a little bit - if you couldn’t see it ?”

„Huh?” War clearly didn’t follow.

„Please don’t make our brother eat with his eyes closed”, murmured Fury between slurping in more pasta. „He makes a fair mess as it is.”

„Wouldn’t dream of it”, you grinned. „What I mean is: just close your eyes and I’ll hand feed you.”

„...Okay.”

Death cocked an eyebrow - his lip curving upwards - but he said nothing.

„Uh-oh,” said Strife. „Here comes the lovey-dovey stuff. Excuse me while I go and puke.”

„And put all this food to waste?” Fury taunted.

The gunslinger shrugged in defeat and went back to munching.

You picked a decent amount of food on the fork, lifted it and smiled at War, who stared you in the face with that endearingly earnest expression. He must’ve really hated arthropods in any shape or form, you thought. Yet he was willing to overcome his disgust. 

For you.

„Close your eyes.” He did, and suddenly there was much less light at the table. „Open wide!”

That he also did. You placed the shrimp inside his mouth with a jeweller’s precision. Strife sniggered.

„...Well?”

War’s snowy eyelashes fluttered while he pressed his jaws together, focusing on the taste. You saw his Adam’s apple bob a little.

You loved this big lug of a man so much.

„How is it?”

„Mmm. _Good._ ” Those lightning blue eyes were looking at you again, wide and smiling. „This was really good.”

„Well then, ready for another round?”

War nodded, pressed his eyelids together and gaped, willing and trustful in that childlike way of his which always turned your cynical heart into jelly.

**PLOP.**

Suddenly many things happened at once. 

Strife howled with laughter, while Fury’s face became a picture of slack-jawed bewilderment. Death, always the quickest to react, was already standing up, one hand pushing his chair aside and the other outstretched protectively towards War. Who was clearly choking.

You watched the Big Guy wheeze and gurgle as if glued to your seat, paralyzed, motionless, the shellfish on your fork like some absurd sceptre.

You didn’t do this.

Death kicked War’s chair out of the way and held his brother in some Nephilim rendition of a Heimlich Maneuver, shaking him unceremoniously through the coughs until the latter went slack in his grasp. 

Finally, War stopped wheezing and did a dog shake.

Only then you were finally able to move.

„Oh, fuck. War. Are you all right?”

„I seem to be.” The Big Guy shot you a dizzy half-smile. Flyaway strands of hair covered his reddened face.

Death cautiously let him go and taxed you with a somewhat less-than-tender stare.

„I didn’t do this!” It hit as hard as a spoken accusation. You waggled the fork with the shrimp still on it. „I didn’t do anything!”

„Then what in the Nine Hells was that?” Fury wanted to know.

„Water”, gasped War, pointing upwards. „A lot of water fell into my mouth at once...I think.”

The four of you suspiciously eyed the ceiling.

Except for the lanky one, who was still guffawing.

„Strife. Did you see that happen?” Death’s voice was perfectly level. Focusing on the task at hand. You felt relief washing all over you; the Reaper clearly didn’t think that you just tried to choke his favourite brother.

Which was a good thing...your bond notwithstanding.

And out of the Four D might’ve been the fastest to react, but it was the gunslinger who had the perfect eyesight.

„Y-yeah!” Strife wiped the tears of mirth away. „Like, at least half a litre at once – boom! Hilarious.”

„What is so damn funny?” You could do with less of Strife’s sense of humour right now.

„Aw, come on there, pumpkin pie. It’s not like he could die from that. Or from anything else.”

You rethought this statement. „Right...yet D reacted!”

„Death used to do this all the time when we were kids”, Fury said softly, tilting her head in your direction. „We’d choke on anything, really. And back then, before we were anointed Horsemen we could have actually died, you know.”

„I guess old habits _die_ hard”. Strife put on his shit-eating grin.

War nodded at his eldest and that was it. The whole „thank you for caring” compressed into one curt gesture. 

You smiled at War and then at Death. He caught your kind, appreciative stare, pressed his lips together and looked away.


End file.
